


Bullets From A Ghost

by Dusty_Skyes



Series: Hard Reverse [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: AU, Garrus might be regretting tagging along, Glyndŵr is Not Okay, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I blame Kuraiummei, M/M, Nihlus really wants Glyndŵr's ship, Saren is Not Amused, Slash, Time Travel, author's wrists hurt, borrowing canon from other authors, i slipped and fell bodily onto the keyboard, i'd be sorry but that requires shame and i misplaced my own a while back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Skyes/pseuds/Dusty_Skyes
Summary: The hardest thing to leave behind when he steps into the past is his Familia Notas. But Garrus—no, not Garrus, he can't be Garrus anymore—is resourceful and a little bit desperate—he's not Saren, he can't walk barefaced, it feels so wrong—and with a twinge of regret, begins marking his kills on his face.He's a ghost. A ghost that Spectre can't catch. A sniper with impossible range and an enormous personal mission.He's going to save both Nihlus and Saren, even if it kills him. Because even if they aren'thisNihlus and Saren, they're still alive and that is all that matters.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Either Die a Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7711198) by [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei). 



> I blame [Kuraiummei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei) and their work [Either Die A Hero](archiveofourown.org/works/7711198).

The ghost first appears when Saren is in the middle of a battle, his biotics glowing brightly as he lashes out with talon-edged gloves. He's known of its, ah, existence for quite a while now—Nihlus being quite happy to share the latest gossip—but the Spectre hadn't believed. Ghosts don't exist, and even if they did, they certainly wouldn't assist the living. Except, here he is in the middle of ripping out the throat of last of the Asari's guards, when his target suddenly collapses mid-howled-word in a puddle of blood, a bullet hole in the exact center of the _nais'_ forehead.

He blinks, drops the body of the final guard, and stalks over so he can stare down at his target's now unmoving form. A check for a pulse confirms what he already knows. The Asari is dead and he wasn't the one who ended them.

_One shot, one kill._

His eyes narrow. Someone _stole_ his target. Do they not know who he is? Saren glances around quickly, his cybernetics scanning the surrounding area in an attempt to find the perpetrator, but it's dead silent. Aside from Nihlus, he's the only living force in the vicinity.

Which, naturally, means a sniper. A really, really, _really_ good one.

“Dammit,” Saren mutters under his breath, twitching at the sound of his own swearing. Snipers are a pain in the ass to deal with, especially since he doesn't know how far the other's range is. The bastard could be anywhere; he's probably already vacated the vicinity.

“Saren!” Nihlus calls as he pokes his head out of a window. “Inside's cleared out.”

“Good. Now get down here. We have other problems.” _Annoying problems,_ his subvocals say. His former student nods and vaults the sill, landing silently on the ground and trotting over like an over-eager puppy.

“Yeah?”

Saren sighs and gestures to the dead Asari. “Take a look.”

Nihlus drops to one knee, completely ignoring the blood that's pooling around his armor, and huffs a breath as he examines the head-wound. “One shot,” he muses, “direct hit.” His eyes narrow, his mandibles quivering in excitement as he scans the horizon. “Came from that direction.” With a huff, the young Turian slides his talons in and carefully digs the bullet out of the Asari's forehead, then wipes it clean. “Well, what do you know! It _is_ our Ghost!”

“Ghost?” Saren asks. “Please tell me you don't believe in that ridiculousness.” _I see a lot of reeducation in the future if you do._

 _Let me explain, please, before you break my mandibles._ “Ghost,” Nihlus begins, “is what we've been calling the sniper that's been appearing lately. We don't know anything about him? Her? Them? Saren, we don't even know their gender! Or their race!” His subvocals quiver in indignation. _We can't even find their sniping spots._

“So how do you know it's Ghost?”

Nihlus grins widely and waves the bullet in his mentor's direction. “Every single bullet has, well, why don't you see for yourself?” He tosses it over and Saren catches it. There, carved into the side of the metal, is a grinning face, with slanted eyes and a mouth filled with sharp teeth. One side of the face has what looks like stylized scars climbing up towards the bottom of the eye. “All of Ghost's bullets have that on them. No idea how the bastard does it, but it makes it easy to identify his kills.” _I'm still suspicious though. Something's weird here._

Saren clicks his tongue and says nothing, but his subvocals are humming loudly in annoyance. _I don't want to ask for help, but we might have to. Neither of us is a sniper._

“Well,” Nihlus drawls, his mandibles twitching in the way they do when he's thinking deeply, “I'm fairly certain that C-Sec has a sniper we can borrow. We've stolen Officers from them before, so we can probably run off with another without too much trouble.”

“That sounds good,” Saren says. “Do you know their name?”

The look Nihlus gives Saren is full of hurt but his subvocals are filled to the brim with laughter. “Of course I know his name! It's Garrus. Not sure of the last, though.”

_Fine. Let's go get him. Bring that bullet._

Nihlus grins even wider, his mandibles splaying outwards in a full smirk, and the two of them head back to the ship.

**oOo**

It's been two months since he managed to step back almost twenty years, about ten years before Eden Prime is attacked, and he's _still_ having trouble believing it. Still waking up with his heart in his throat, desperately reaching out for people that are no longer there. The first thing he gets rid of are his _Familia Notas_. He can't wear them anymore. He's not who he used to be. Not anymore.

(And that's probably the most painful. Who is he, really? He doesn't know anymore.)

His first kill in the past is alarmingly easy, almost too easy. Thirty five hundred meters back, one shot, one kill, and the Krogan is dead on the ground in a pool of their own blood. He's still barefaced—still touching his mark-free plates and hide and wincing—and quickly becoming desperate. He's not Saren—he can't walk barefaced and be proud—and Garrus—not Garrus; he can't be Garrus, not anymore—is quickly reaching his limit. One knife fight later with a bunch of humans and he smears bloody fingertips underneath his eyes and promptly forgets about it, far too distracted with staying alive and mostly in one piece. It's only later, hours after the battle, when he looks into a mirror on his ship and sees the dried blood lining his eyes, that he realizes what he's done. What he is about to do.

Traditionally, one isn't supposed to mark their kills on their face, but he's far past caring about tradition at this point, and the Turian makes a side trip to pick up the paints needed to do the markings. He's done his own markings before, many times when he was younger and on his own, and it's fairly easy to settle down and devise a system. After a while, and a whole lot of trial and error, he winds up with a sort of sea-green color for his markings, and it shows up clear against his silver-gray plates. The kills themselves wind up as counts in marks of five. One through four are small dots, five is a crescent, and six through nine are dots as well. Ten decides to be a small rectangle. Fifty becomes a triangle. One hundred is a shape similar to a V. Five hundred ends up as a stylized teardrop. A thousand is three lines underneath his mouth. After that, he doesn't know, but he'll get there eventually. Maybe.

(That's assuming he lives that long. A broken heart is a dangerous thing.)

The feeling of suffocating on air only gets worse when he kills the Asari, when he catches a glimpse of both Saren and Nihlus through his scope. He barely sticks around long enough to confirm the kill and make a note of the distance—just over four and a half thousand meters—before fleeing back to his own ship.

He'd stay and watch them, his beautiful Spectre, but right now his heart is in his throat and he's choking on every breath and _he has to get out of here right now while he can still think straight._

It's only after he's on his ship and hundreds of miles away from the planet that he allows his breakdown to happen. It's real; he's in the past, and there had been things he'd noticed before, but he'd never really accepted it until now. Seeing Saren, sane and stable and beautiful without Sovereign's unwanted enhancements, and Nihlus, alive and cheerful and so free with no bullet in his head, makes it all the more real. His mandibles quiver, shaking as he breathes a broken sob, and he yanks off his helmet so he can cry unhindered on the floor of his ship.

He still doesn't have a name for himself, but the Spectre have given him one anyway. Ghost. It's oddly appropriate. Especially on the days where he has to make himself bleed just so he can know he's alive.

**oOo**

Garrus, as it turns out, is a part of Clan Vakarian, and Saren nods approvingly at the sight of the other Turian. His clan, the Arterius, are all gone; he's the last one now. Nihlus is a Kryik, and definitely not part of a clan; an orphan if you will.

Nihlus, on the other hand, is wondering what the hell Garrus is being fed. He's already seven feet tall, tall and lanky for their species, but the sniper easily has five inches on him. His gaze flickers sideways to where his mentor is standing, more than a full foot shorter than him. Saren's adorably small for their species, barely reaching six feet, and there are times when Nihlus just wants to snuggle him. Of course, his mentor could gut him and use his intestines as a decoration, but it would be worth it. Probably.

Aw, who was he kidding. Nihlus would die happy if he got to kiss Saren senseless. At the very least, he'd get to taste the other's _reverie_.

“Did you need me for something, Spectre?” the sniper asks, his subvocals vibrating in curiosity.

“Yup!” Nihlus chirps, dragging his mind out of the gutter and cheerfully displaying the bullet after fishing it out of a pocket. “We've been dealing with a sniper we've named Ghost, but we haven't found out anything about them.”

Garrus blinks. “So you're coming to me because I'm also a sniper.”

“Exactly,” Saren says, subvocals humming his approval. This one is smart; quick on the draw, and he likes it.

“Good thing I'm currently on leave,” the silver-gray-plated _torin_ comments as he locks his apartment. “Shall we go?” He takes the bullet from Nihlus and eyes the design on it carefully. “Impressive design. Probably laser etched, though the scar seems to be done by hand.”

Nihlus pauses mid-step and stares at him. “You can tell that just by looking at the bullet?”

“Sure. I'm just that good.”

 _Brats_ , Saren rumbles.

 _I'll have you know that I'm a year older than you, Arterius_ , Garrus answers almost absently. “So where are we going first?”

“The Asari?” Nihlus guesses. Saren nods and the younger Spectre turns to the C-Sec Detective. “An incident this morning where one of our targets was sniped. You're holding the bullet.” He steps into the ship and gets out of the way as Saren heads for his seat. It's not a long trip to the incident, not even off the planet, and the three of them settle in.

**oOo**

He settles on the rocks, places his M-7 Lancer down and quickly sets his heavily-modded M-98 Widow into position, but his mind is somewhat occupied. A name. He needs a name. Something that is appropriate, yet not giving anything away. He huffs a breath and peers through the scope, eyeing the target as they move through the area. There's no chance of him being seen from the building, not unless they have their own sniper who can see his hidden form approximately five thousand meters out. For a moment, he wonders if he's doing the right thing. Then he remembers the terrified girls he'd helped Saren rescue from here last time, grinds his teeth together hard enough to draw blood, and looks through the scope again.

The target has stopped moving. He breathes in, waits half a second, his finger on the trigger, and then realizes that Spectre is here as well when he spots Nihlus scaling a wall like a goddamn spider. Saren is further inside the building, slipping from shadow to shadow; he notes that with a twitch of annoyance, and squashes the panic when he sees his younger self settling into a snipe spot with a Viper—he remembers his Viper. She was destroyed in an attempt to make him useless. Shepard had given him Widow in return—almost three thousand meters closer to the building. ' _Shit_ ,' he thinks, eyes the target, breathes in, out, waits half a heartbeat, and then pulls the trigger.

 _One shot, one kill_.

Then he's moving, grabbing his stuff and quickly squirreling it away, and bolting back towards his hidden ship. There's no possible way the two Spectre wouldn't have noticed that. Especially since Saren was in the same damn room as the target. He curses his horrible luck and starts up his ship, quickly punching in the hyper-drive code and activating her stealth mode. She fades from view and launches upwards, spinning up through the atmosphere in a speed that borders on full-out ridiculousness. He clings to a seat the entire way off of the planet, laughing almost frantically.

She's his _Eluci_ , his baby, and he built her by hand. He's very lucky that she came back with him.

Another planet passes by and he has her spiral down onto it the moment it's verified that it has breathable air, slipping through the atmosphere in Saren's patented stealth landing. Once down, he steps outside into a valley that has a gigantic river cutting through the center. A laugh escapes him.

A valley of water. Glyndŵr. How...oddly appropriate.

Glyndŵr huffs and settles down on the grass, bringing a hand up to guard against one of the planet's two suns. He brushes a hand against his sea-green markings and begins to laugh, not caring in the least when it starts to teeter on the edge of hysterical.

**oOo**

Saren is three inches from having a screaming fit, but clamps his jaw and tries to keep himself from grinding his teeth together. His subvocals, however, have no such resignation and are screaming his fury to the world. Vakarian is kneeling by their target, carefully extracting the bullet from the human's forehead.

They had been planning on heading back to the site with the Asari, but a call for this incident had come in and Nihlus had gleefully requested to do it. Get to see their sniper in action, he said. Garrus had agreed, hefting his Viper over his shoulder as they slipped into position.

But apparently Ghost was there as well, as the bastard shot the leader before Saren was able to cut them down. “Got it,” Garrus says, carefully removing the bullet from the neat hole—much neater than anything Saren could have done—and holds it up.

Nihlus bounces over and eyes it. “Yup, that's Ghost's. So, uh, where the hell did it come from?”

Saren frowns. “Language. That's what I want to know,” he growls. _I checked,_ his subvocals hiss, _there wasn't any sniper around except Vakarian for three thousand meters._

“Then Ghost was further out,” Garrus states flatly. “Come on. I think I have an idea of where they were set up.” He heads for the door and steps out, setting up a brisk jog as he heads towards his sniping spot.

“Where are we going?” Nihlus asks, easily keeping pace with him.

“My sniping spot. I had a clear view of the target and I saw the bullet hit home. From the angle, Ghost was nearby, but farther out.” He carefully eyes the rocks where he was positioned and leaps further out, moving almost randomly as he examines different spots. Saren rolls his eyes upwards and scowls darkly.

Even the youngest Turian is frowning when they reach the four and a half thousand meter mark. “You really think they shot from this far out?” he asks disbelievingly.

There's silence for a moment as the Detective scans the area carefully. “Yes.” Garrus turns just slightly, vaults onto a rock at exactly five thousand meters out and uses his talons to pry a bullet casing out of a crack. “Found it. Ghost shot from here.”

“Five thousand meters,” Nihlus whispers. _Holy shit. That's amazing. If they don't have biotics or cybernetics, I'm going to be surprised and really impressed._

Saren looks vaguely intrigued and his subvocals hum their appreciation. _I agree._

Garrus nods. “Ghost must be one hell of a sniper to aim from this far out and still get a direct shot.”

It's a testimony to how impressed Saren is that he doesn't reprimand the Detective for his language. Nihlus bounds into the bushes seconds later, calling back “Found something!” There's silence as Saren follows him. Hidden in a clearing is the indentation of a decent sized ship. _I wondered how he was getting away._

 _Indeed,_ Saren answers, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. _Pretty deep indentation, too. Must of been a quick getaway. Which means they have a good ship._

_I don't blame them,_ Garrus interjects with a shrug of his shoulders,  _Spectre is not something you want to mess with. And with how quick that getaway would have to be, I'm going to say they have an amazing ship._

**oOo**

When Glyndŵr first settles into his seat in the corner of the bar with a good drink, he only intends to people-watch, to borrow a human term that Nihlus had once been so fond of. He's not particularly interested in meeting anyone, only Saren and Nihlus can have his heart, but he's quite content to sit back and watch time tick by. 

He eyes the crowds as they pass by, identifying other's personalities based on the drinks they order and the people they flirt with. It's fun, and he's definitely enjoying himself. At least, that is, until Nihlus himself drops gracefully into the seat opposite from him and starts flirting. “Good evening, sweetheart.”  _ What a nice ass. I wanna touch. _

Glyndŵr's mandibles quiver with restrained laughter underneath his cloak when he realizes that Nihlus doesn't know he's also a Turian. “Hello, Spectre,” he purrs back, injecting  _ I know I have a nice ass. No touching it though,  _ into his own subvocals. 

Nihlus twitches, his drink splashing slightly as his dark brown hide flushes purple and his mandibles splay outwards in pure embarrassment. _Someone kill me now._ _Please._

“No can do.”  _ I have no interest in facing down Spectre Arterius. _

“Not brave?”

“Not suicidal,” Glyndŵr states flatly. Nihlus leans back in his seat and breaks out into bright, ringing laughter that catches the attention of a lot of people. A sharp glare directed at them by Nihlus, the look patented by Saren that says 'Grumpy and willing to kill', quickly takes care of that and the Spectre snickers under his breath. The silver-gray  _ torin _ takes a swig of his drink and carefully swallows the heavy liquor, ignoring the way his throat burns with each swallow.

“I'm Nihlus, though you probably knew that.”

Glyndŵr rolls his eyes underneath the hood. “Who doesn't? You may call me Glyn.” 

“Valley, huh? Short for something?”

“Maybe,” he says and finishes his drink before he stands up from his seat and heads for the door. If he's quick enough, he can ditch the Spectre before Arterius appears. It's bad enough that he has the interest of one, both would be worse. Glyndŵr conveniently ignores the tiny piece of his mind pointing out that he isn't ready to see both at once and slips out through the door, neatly scaling a wall and vaulting onto the roof before Nihlus can make it outside and see him. 'That was too easy,' he thinks with a smirk and leans back to look up at the sky. Below him, he can hear the faint cursing when the younger  _ torin _ realizes what just happened and that he's going to have to explain the situation to Saren.

With a huff, Glyndŵr's leaps onto the roof next door and lazily begins making his way in the direction of where the docks are. With any luck, he can board and leave tonight, hopefully before the Spectre shut the docks down in an attempt to find him. He has things he has to do anyway. Like redo his  _ Familia Notas.  _

Five hundred and sixty seven snipes, most of them kills stolen from some Spectre or another. A good chunk of those are kills he took from Saren and Nihlus. He does it mainly because it's hilarious to see the way Arterius grinds his teeth together in fury. Glyndŵr's mouth twitches upwards to reveal sharp teeth, his mandibles splaying outwards in a grin. At this rate, he'd be stealing his thousandth kill from Spectre in no time.

**oOo**

“This doesn't make sense,” Garrus mutters loudly as he pries another casing out of a rock. 

Nihlus looks up from where he's inspecting the body. “What doesn't make sense?” Saren huffs in minor annoyance and leans back against a convenient tree. 

“Before, Ghost was leaving casings only when they made a record shot. Now they're all over the place and I can't figure out why!” He glares at the face etched into the metal and tosses the thing to Saren, watching with vague amusement as the elder  _ torin _ squirrels it away.

On the rocky outing above them—he barely had time to snatch all his stuff and disappear before Garrus found this snipe spot—hidden from view of the three Turians below him, Glyndŵr smirks widely. They wanted answers, huh? Well, he'd give them then, but it wouldn't be the ones they wanted. He reaches into his bag, grabs a sheet of paper, scrawls  _**Because I'm an asshole, sugar, that's why** _ on it and spikes it on a branch just in view before sliding off of the back of the rock and slinking back to his ship. He'd stay and watch the reactions, but that's cutting it a little too close and Glyndŵr's not sure how much his heart can take. 

He's getting better. But there are still days where he has to make himself bleed to realize that he's not hallucinating. 

_ Eluci _ lifts off without a sound, without leaving a mark behind, and he guides her through the atmosphere and away from the planet. 

Below him on the ground, Saren finds the note and starts cursing Ghost out with every name under the sun. Garrus sighs and covers his face with his hands and tries to ignore the way Nihlus is roaring with laughter. 

**oOo**

He thought he was doing  _ better. _

_ But, no, he has to bleed. He should have known better than to get too close. _ Memories flicker past his eyes, blinding him and making his subvocals scream in agony. Nihlus, so still in death, eyes wide with betrayal and markings buried underneath the blue-purple of his own blood. Saren, eyes alight with madness, then grief when Shepard talks him back into sanity long enough to take his own life. And then Sovereign, revealing just what changes it had forced Saren through, burning away pale silver-gray plates and gray hide to reveal the cybernetics underneath. 

They'd never bonded. He's never confessed to them; never told them how much he loves them, and he regrets it with every breath he takes; with every beat of his shattered heart. 

Is his blood purple-blue? Or is it blue-purple? He can't remember and Glyndŵr is having issues breathing straight. His chest is tight; he's choking on every breath, and he needs to breath, but he  _ can't _ . He stumbles, sinks into his chair in front of the control panel and tugs the bandage around his arm tighter. 

_ It was... _

_ He just.... _

_ I.... _

_ HELP ME _

Glyndŵr's drowning in his own grief and he can't swim and  _ ohgodpleasesomeoneanyonedon'tletmedie.  _

A broken heart truly is the most dangerous thing.

**oOo**

A patrol stop. Him! Saren Arterius! Doing a patrol stop! It's maddening, the level of bullshit that Spectres go through sometimes. His subvocals vibrate his fury and he can see Nihlus carefully avoiding him. Garrus is following his former student's example, cautiously staying out of his way. Saren supposes it's only fair, considering the fact that they were the ones who had lost the fugitive—or rather, Nihlus had been shot and Saren had let the bastard go so he could tend to his student—but that doesn't make him happy about it. 

“Ship,” Garrus says quietly, and Saren stops his fuming to watch as it slows, drifting to a halt beside them. Clearly, the owner of the ship has dealt with other patrols before, as they meet the three of them in their hold without hesitation. 

“Good afternoon,” someone says and Saren looks up from where he's examining the ship to see a Turian. 

“Good afternoon,” he returns icily, carefully keeping an eye on the owner of the ship. It's an excellent ride, and he can practically see Nihlus scheming ways to snatch it. Garrus' eyes are glued to the heavily-modded M-98 Widow that the other has with him. 

This Turian isn't one he's seen before. Silver-gray plates similar to his and Garrus', but the markings are sea-green, curling around icy eyes. A massive scar covers the right side of the  _ torin _ 's face, marring his plates, hide, and mandibles, and his  _ Familia Notas _ have been carefully redone around it. They're not a style Saren recognizes. “Do you need something, Spectres?” the other asks, mandibles relaxed and in an easy grin. Saren notes nervousness and anxiety in his subvocals and narrows his eyes in suspicion. 

“We're looking for a fugitive,” Nihlus interjects and then begins describing them. “Mind if we look around?”

“No,” the  _ torin  _ responds, subvocals now vibrating with amusement. “Go ahead. Just don't break anything. Or walk off with any of my guns.” 

Nihlus snickers at the indignant look on Garrus' face, and then asks, “Where are you headed?”

“Palaven. My parent's graves are there and it's about time I visited them.”

Saren frowns dubiously. “Palaven isn't anywhere near here. You're going in the wrong direction.”

“I know. There's a bakery in this sector that my mother adored. I'm stopping off there before heading on.” A slight frown is gracing the other's face and Saren looks around, his cybernetics scanning the entire ship. There's no one else on board except for the male and he nods. 

“That's all we needed. Thank you.” He whirls around and heads back towards his own ship, a scowl on his face. The moment they find the fugitive, Saren's going to put a bullet in their forehead as a thank you for making him put up with this level of bullshit. 

**oOo**

Glyndŵr slides to the ground in numb relief the moment they're gone and runs a hand over his face in pure relief. “Hyper-warp,” he barks and she rumbles around him, her speed picking up as they leave the station behind and jump to the nearest planet. He drops his head between his knees and stares at the floor, trying to keep his breathing steady. 

Out of all the people in the universe, the one person he never thought he'd be jealous of was himself.

That's now a lie, seeing as Glyndŵr is extremely jealous of himself right now. 

**oOo**

Then  _ The Incident  _ happens and Glyndŵr's no longer fairly certain that life  _ hates _ him; he's positive that life actively  _ despises _ him. He's in the middle of sniping clear a facility of kidnappers when Spectre arrives and quickly works on finishing everything up. Glyndŵr's not worried about being recognized; he's armored from head to toe in black and gold with a voice modulator on his suit. 

But things quickly go south when one of the kidnappers grabs a hostage—a little Asari no more than eight summers old who was only here because they were with their parent—and puts a gun to their head. Nihlus freezes, fury burning in his eyes. Saren's suddenly standing at the edge of the room, his gloved talons covered in blood. “Drop the child,” Nihlus hisses, his hands clenching tightly.

The human holding the gun to the Asari's head laughs. “Do you really think I'm going to do that?”

“Drop. The. Child,” comes from the rafter above and Nihlus' head shifts so he can see Garrus aiming his Viper at the bastard. For a moment he wonders how the Turian got up there in the first place.

Then he's distracted by a rather alarming crack coming from the child's neck and Nihlus realizes what the human is going to do within a split second. He lunges forward with a snarl, but is stopped when a perfect hole appears in the human's forehead before they can break the child's neck. The man drops to the ground, dead.

_ One shot, one kill _ . 

Three more shots take out three more of the kidnappers and then Ghost slides out of the shadows, a still smoking pistol in their hands. “Just try anything,” they purr, “I dare you.” Nihlus has never been more glad to see the sniper, even if they drive Saren insane with their ability to not be found. With that out of the way, the four of them clear out the facility within fifteen minutes. 

Then Garrus glances around and pauses. “Where's the leader of this gang? The Salarian?” he asks. Nihlus whirls around and spots the bastard Salarian fleeing across the grass towards a waiting ship. There's no way they'll be able to reach their own ship in time before she gets away. 

Nihlus vaults the windowsill and begins running across the grass towards their own ship, Saren and Garrus close behind. Then Ghost veers off towards the left. “There's no way you'll be able to start your ship before that bastard's gone!” they snarl. 

“Got any better ideas?” Nihlus snaps, because he's three hundred percent done by this point.  _ I hope you do _ . 

_ I do.  _ Ghost taps something on the side of their helmet and barks, “Full descent!”

“What?” Garrus asks flatly. Saren's brow plates rise up a little. 

Not even a second later, a ship about the size of Saren's own spirals down through the clouds, draws level, and blazes a path towards them. “Weapons online. Hyper-drive code CRCVII name ID SOVEREIGN,” Ghost adds and jumps into the open hanger when it drawls up alongside them. “Are you coming or not?”

Saren lunges forward, grabs both Nihlus and Garrus, and activates his biotics, leaping through the door before it slides shut. Ghost vanishes into the CIC and flicks their hands, holographic images popping up. “Brace yourselves,” they say and then the gravity is tripled as the ship  _ rockets _ into orbit. Garrus drops to the floor, pressing himself against the cool surface. Nihlus braces himself against the wall and slowly slides down it. Saren manages to make it to a chair before his limbs give out. 

Ghost doesn't even look bothered; they're still standing and typing on the holographic screen. Nihlus decides that he hates them and their fantastic voice. He  _ really _ wants this ship, though.

Then Saren snarls as he spots the kidnapper's ship out the rear window. “Behind us!”

“Taken care of.” Ghost presses something and the ship twirls upwards, flipping around in an Immelmann turn that makes Garrus cringe and cling to the furniture. Weapons click into view, the glow on the end signaling they're completely charged. “Fire.” 

The Salarian's ship goes up in a fireball of flames that lick greedily at the oxygen filled atmosphere below them. “Wow,” Nihlus breathes.  _ I want this ship so bad. _ “Where did you  _ get _ this ship?”

_ She's mine, thank you. _ Ghost doesn't even look at them. Somehow Nihlus isn't surprised that the other is a Turian.  _ I built her by hand myself.  _ The ship drops through the atmosphere with ease and lands silently beside Saren's own. “Now get out.” 

They get out.

**oOo**

Successfully hitting Saren with a dose of  _ reverie _ without having his intestines ripped out is a job all on its own. Well, it normally would be, except the elder Spectre is in a receptive mood and now Nihlus is pinned against a desk, legs spread wide and his mentor kneeling in between them, holding his plates closed and greedily shoving his tongue into the opening in a way that makes Nihlus arch with pleasure and drape his legs around the back of Saren's shoulders.

Then the silver-gray-plated  _ torin _ pulls away and lets his plates open fully, shoving forward to kiss Nihlus senseless, and the two of them wind up drugged to the metaphorical gills with  _ reverie _ . 

And when Saren fills him, Nihlus wraps his legs around his mentor's waist and clings to him, gasping with each movement and whining for more. He gives as good as he gets, nipping and sucking; curling up and running his tongue over Saren's Valluvian horns until the elder snarls, pulls out, flips him over, and plows back in. 

Nihlus ends up spilling over the desk, his stomach plates sliding in the slick mess as Saren fills him to the brim with heat. They curl up there on the floor, warm and content, just purring softly. 

It still feels like they're missing something, though. Like there's still a puzzle piece that hasn't yet been slotted into place.

**oOo**

Eden Prime is a disaster from beginning to end. Saren had been sent on a separate mission, Garrus is back with C-Sec, and Nihlus misses them both. 

First is the fact that almost no one on the ship likes him. He's not quite sure what to make of that. Shepard is all right for a human, though. Polite even to him. Then it's the transmission from the planet's surface that cuts off awkwardly, revealing that there's quite a bit of issues going on. They land on the planet and it's dead silent, not even the sound of birds. There's no sign of those who have already died, not even bones. 

Nihlus twitches slightly. He doesn't like this. Then the geth appear. There are geth everywhere, gleefully killing everyone who doesn't get ended with the first wave. Dragon Teeth decorate the hillsides, corpses hanging off of them like macabre ornaments. Shepard and their crew head off towards the Beacon with their guns blazing, hoping that they can rescue the damn thing before the geth run off with it. His own attention is drawn to the ruins of a village and the flash of silver-gray plates he had seen through the tress. Garrus is back in the Citadel with C-Sec, and Ghost is  _ always _ armored in black and gold, so there's only one  _ torin _ it can be. 

But why, of all places possible, would Saren be here?

He huffs a breath, pushes the thought out of his mind, and calls his mentor's name. “Saren!”

Saren twitches and turns to face him and Nihlus is struck by how  _ off _ the other  _ torin _ seems. Something is wrong here. Something is really, really wrong, and it's bothering him. “Nihlus.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The Council thought you could use some help.”

Nihlus smiles widely and turns around to look over the ruined village. “That's great! This whole place has gone to hell in a hand-basket. Geth everywhere and almost the entire colony destroyed. Having you here will make things a lot easier.”

“Yes,” Saren says, and it suddenly strikes Nihlus that he can't hear his mentor's subvocals, “I have everything in hand.” 

From behind him comes the click of a gun. 

**oOo**

Glyndŵr curses under his breath as he darts through the trees, shooting down any geth that dares to challenge him with precise, deadly shots. Just through the trees is the place where Nihlus died last time and he increases his pace, his eyes locked on Saren's form. The  _ torin _ is wearing his usual armor, thankfully, and Glyndŵr yanks out his tranquilizer gun, drops to one knee, and takes aim. 

Each dart has enough strength to take out an elephant. Saren used to be able to resist up to five of them with his biotics, but that was  _ that _ Saren.  _ This _ Saren hasn't ever been shot with them. His body won't be ready. A heartbeat, a breath, and just before Saren can pull the trigger and end Nihlus' life for the second time, Glyndŵr pulls his own and hits the silver-gray  _ torin _ in the neck, just underneath his mandibles, with two darts. The Spectre staggers sideways, eyes glazing over as the drug takes effect almost immediately, and crumples to the ground, his gun clattering away across the rocks. Nihlus whirls around at the sound. Glyndŵr stalks over and drops to one knee, carefully checking the other over. Out cold, his helmet informs him, and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

Then, just to be sure, he shoots Saren with one more dart, and reaches over to toss the Turian's gun to his stunned student. “Here.” With a huff, Glyndŵr lifts Saren's dead-weight and swings the unconscious body over his shoulder, before turning and heading towards a cave system that will provide adequate protection from the geth. “Are you coming, Kryik?”

Nihlus shakes himself out of his stupor and hurries over. “What the hell? You shot Saren, Ghost!”  _ How could you do that? _ His subvocals hitch halfway through, warning of impending tears. 

“I know I shot Arterius. He's just unconscious. I hit him with a bunch of tranquilizers.”

“Why?”  _ Well, that's better than dead _ . 

“He was going to shoot you in the back of the head, Kryik _. _ ”  _ He would have killed you. _

“What?” Nihlus asks, rearing back in horror.  _ He would NEVER do that! _

Glyndŵr sighs and steps inside of the caves, taking the first right to head towards the large, one entrance room that he knows is there. With that single entrance, nothing would be able to sneak up on them. “I've seen this before,” he finally decides on. “It's a sort of brainwashing that replaces your own morals and thoughts with that of someone else's. Thankfully, it's easy to recognize.” He pulls a blanket out of his bag and drops it onto the ground, settling Saren's unconscious form down on top of it. “Arterius' eyes are how they got to him in the first place. Damn Reaper technology.” 

Nihlus drops down to press a hand against Saren's forehead. “Is it easy to get rid of?” he asks quietly.  _ What happens if it isn't? Will I have to kill him? _

“A hard enough blow to the head should do it.” He huffs a sigh, settles against the wall and pulls his helmet off, not wanting to leave it on for any longer than normal. “If not that, then removing Arterius' eyes will also work.”

“What the _hell_?”

Glyndŵr opens his eyes. “What?”

“You're the Turian from that ship! The one who said—”

“I was going to the bakery and then my parent's graves? Yeah. I did, too. And yes, I'm also Ghost.” 

“One thousand, seven hundred, and ninety nine snipe shots stolen from Spectre. Five thousand, six hundred, and thirty seven meters was the longest distance from your target,” Nihlus recites. “We kept track of your record shots. How the  _ fuck _ did you do that?”

“A heavily modified M-98 Widow sniper rifle, good aim, a shit-ton of skill, and a bit of luck.” Glyndŵr twitches when Nihlus is suddenly in his face.

“Do you have cybernetics or biotics?”

“No.”

“Woooow,” the carmine-plated Spectre breathes. “You're  _ amazing _ .”

Glyndŵr rubs at his scarred mandible, slightly embarrassed. “In any case, Spectre Arterius' mortals and codes have been overwritten. It's a testament to how much he loves you that he aimed for your head.”

Nihlus settles back onto his heels and tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because head-shots are quick deaths. You wouldn't have suffered. Thankfully I was here. When he wakes up, test him with a subvocal name. If he doesn't respond properly and immediately, hit him over the head hard enough to knock him out.” 

“And if he does?”

“Try another. If that one works as well, then he's fine.”

“All right,” Nihlus says. He's quiet for a moment before an odd look settles over his face. “I just realized that I don't know your name.”

“.....” Glyndŵr is silent for a while before finally sighing, his subvocals vibrating as he says, “Glyndŵr.”

Nihlus goes purple and then gray in quick succession. “You were the Glyn from that bar! The one who  _ ditched _ me! Saren gave me a lecture and then retraining! He  _ broke _ my mandible!” he hisses almost furiously. 

Glyndŵr rolls his eyes towards the ceiling of the cave. “I just lost a lover. I didn't want to deal with you, all right?” It's a bit of a stretch, but close enough to the truth and Nihlus wilts. 

_ I'm sorry _ . 

_ It's fine. _

The younger  _ torin _ goes quiet for a while, but his eyes flicker up towards Glyndŵr's markings. “Can I ask what family your markings are from? I don't recognize them.”

Glyndŵr settles down to meditate. “I stopped wearing my family's  _ Familia Notas _ almost twenty years ago. These are kill marks.”  _ And don't ask about my family. I'm not going to tell you. _

Nihlus is about to ask more when Saren groans, blue eyes flickering open as the older Spectre carefully sits up.  _ Saren? _ he asks curiously, watching as Ghost gets to his feet and grabs his gun.

“How  _ dare _ you,” Saren spits, only to collapse face-down and unconscious on the ground when Glyndŵr nails him in the back of his head with the butt of his rifle. 

“Sorry,” he begins lazily, “my hand slipped.” He sets the rifle aside and rolls the Turian over, shoving him back onto the blanket. “You know, Arterius is adorably small for our species. I have the urge to wrap him up in a blanket and cuddle him.”

“I know,” Nihlus breathes, gleeful at the thought that he's not the only one thinking this, “but I know he'd kill me.”

“So drug him with  _ reverie _ first.” 

Nihlus shakes his head, his mandibles drooping. “That doesn't feel right.” He sighs. “So, what are kill marks?”

“Each mark is someone I killed. The dots are ones, crescents are fives, rectangles are tens, triangles mean fifty, a hundred is the 'v' on my nose, five hundred are the teardrops, and the three marks on my chin mean a thousand.”

“Wow.” Nihlus glances over at Saren's unconscious form, his mandibles twitching. He desperately needs a nap, but he doesn't want to risk being out cold if Saren wakes up again.

“Relax, Kryik. I'll remain awake. I think I can handle Arterius for a few hours.” Glyndŵr stretches lazily, settles into a meditative position, and stretches out his senses, feeling more than seeing when Nihlus curls up nearby and drifts off into sleep. He runs a hand over the slightly smaller male's crest, a small smile splaying his mandibles outwards. 

He meditates quietly for a few hours, only coming out of it when Saren comes to for the second time. With a huff, Glyndŵr rises to his feet and grabs his rifle.  _ Arterius _ . 

_ Shut up. My head hurts. _

“Are you going to try and kill Kryik again?”

Saren groans softly in pain but manages to sit up. The moment he spots Nihlus, curled up and asleep, relief floods his face.  _ Good. I didn't kill him. _

“I tranquilized you before you could.”

Recognition fills blue eyes and Saren winces.  _ I thought I recognized your signature. You're the Turian from that ship we stopped while looking for a fugitive. _

“Yes, I am. Kryik will be glad to have you back. I will try to keep him from jumping you when he wakes up in a few hours.” 

_ In a few hours _ ? Saren asks.

“I might have convinced him to take a nap. He needed the sleep,” Glyndŵr says with a sort of half-shrug. “My name is Glyndŵr.” 

**oOo**

Nihlus wakes up almost six hours later, somehow managing to sleep through two firefights with the geth. Glyndŵr eyes him almost enviously, contemplating whether or not he should dump a bucket of ice water over the  _ torin _ 's head.  _ He _ certainly can't sleep through anything, much less active gunfire. Saren settles against the wall, eyes mostly closed as he drapes an arm over a knee and rests his chin on it. Glyndŵr sighs and nudges the carmine-plated Spectre, raising a single brow-plate when Nihlus merely whines and swats at the offending foot. “I'm fairly impressed,” he comments. “Not everyday that you meet someone who can sleep through the end of the world. 

Saren snorts, not even bothering to muffle the sound. “He's only like this when he's gotten nowhere near enough sleep.” 

Glyndŵr turns his burning gaze on the Spectre, who twitches just the slightest. “Unlike you, who can live on six or less hours a night. The rest of us are nowhere near as amazing as you are, Arterius.” 

“Spirits,” the other mutters, looking like he's barely refraining from rolling his eyes. Nihlus chooses that moment to wake up, yawning widely as he stretches out like an over-sized cat, mandibles spreading out completely. 

“Now that's not fair,” Glyndŵr comments lazily. “It should be illegal to look that good upon waking up.” Nihlus' subvocals jump in surprise and he twists around, freezing at the sight of Saren sitting against the wall. 

_ Saren? _

_ Nihlus. _

“You're all right,” the  _ torin _ breathes, mandibles spreading in a wide smile, and then vaults over Glyndŵr, hitting Saren with all the speed of a runaway ship as he wraps his legs around his mentor's waist and nuzzles into a gray neck. “You're all right.”

Saren reaches up and begins petting Nihlus' fringe, exactly the place he almost shot him. “I'm all right,” he agrees softly.  “I'm all right.”

_Maybe things_ will _ be all right. _

 


End file.
